At a cafe in Biloxi, Miss., friends and I were chatting over coffee when we were joined by a man who is a business associate of one of my friends who was sitting at the table.
He pulled up a chair, plopped down and launched fast-paced into conversation. He was straight-forward, minced no words and softened no opinion.
He is a Yankee.
“Damn Yankee,” he corrected me. “That’s what I am.” His blue eyes locked mine with a steely look that bored deeply. “Do you know the difference between a plain Yankee and a damn Yankee?”
I nodded and smiled. “You’ve come South to stay.” Read More»